


Boy Wonder

by poisonivory, puzzleboat



Series: Boy Wonder [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Popstar, M/M, Multimedia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory, https://archiveofourown.org/users/puzzleboat/pseuds/puzzleboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1999, Foggy Nelson was the secret weapon in a now-forgotten boy band. Sixteen years later, he meets his biggest fan: music critic Matt Murdock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drink the Eel

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most self-indulgent thing anyone has ever written, so _get ready, folks_. Of note: Matt lost his eyesight a few years later in this AU, more in line with comics canon than show canon.
> 
> There are text descriptions of the embedded images below each image for this chapter, but for future chapters the longer ones will be pulled out and placed in a secondary chapter just for ease of browsing. Please let us know if the text descriptions can be improved, neither of us have written them before!

"C'mon, Matty, this girly shit again?" Jack mumbles to himself as he walks into the kitchen to grab a beer. Matt can hear him, but his dad doesn't know that, so he just pulls the headphones tighter around his ears and keeps needlessly running his fingers over the CD liner notes.

The CD is a few years old now. Matt had liked it well enough at the time, even if he would have never admitted it. It'd been easy to set it aside when everyone else had, when _TRL_ started being populated by rock videos and guys with lip rings calling boy bands "lame" and also "super lame."

And then the accident happened.

Matt didn't listen to music for a while afterwards. At first it was because he couldn't get his hearing under control and everything was too loud. Eventually he tried the CDs that had been his favorites only months before, but the guitars and feedback and record scratches were harsh and unmelodic. He heard every slide of fingers on guitar strings, every raspy scream, every slap of a poorly-played bass.

He found his boy band albums at the bottom of his closet, under a pile of now-too-small flannel shirts he'd never folded and put away. All the bands had broken up by now, mocked and then forgotten. A couple of the boys had tried to have solo careers, but most couldn't get a foothold in the anti-teen pop landscape without changing their sound entirely. Matt ran his fingers over the smooth plastic of the topmost CD case, remembering the synthy strings, the Swedish drum machines, the a cappella harmonies, the compressed production, the trained pubescent voices. He placed the CD in his Discman and carefully put on his headphones.

It was in the bridge of the album's first track that he remembered the voice. Not the squeaky boyish voices from the verses, the heartthrobs who could only mostly put across a melody, but a polished singer, with perfect pitch, full of emotion and even a little bit of soul, at least for an 11-year-old white kid. After Matt's ears locked onto the voice, he found it all over the album's mix: carrying almost all of the backup harmonies, doubling the weaker singers, boosted in the blends of the choruses. He heard things he'd never heard in the CD before, could never have heard. It was all so clear that it almost brought forward a mental picture of that boy's face, in the back of the dance numbers (he wasn't all that good a dancer) and smiling wholesomely on the album cover.

Matt hasn't taken the CD out of his Discman in the weeks since. His dad helped him find the repeat button, and he listens to it while he sits in his room after school, when he used to be playing outside, trying not to hear the people on the street and in the neighboring apartments. He can focus in on that voice when everything else seems too loud, when he wants to feel like he's wrapped in a warm sonic blanket, protected.

"Hey, Dad?" Matt asks Jack before he can open his beer and leave the kitchen. Matt tugs off his headphones and turns toward the sound of Jack's breathing. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Matty, what is it?" Jack says, placing the bottle on the counter.

Matt holds up the liner notes. "The little blonde kid, the one with the slicked-back hair and the bandana. Can you tell me his name?"

Jack sighs and bends over to look closer at the booklet. Matt can smell his breath; this'll be his third beer.

"It's Foggy," Jack says with an amused snort, straightening up to leave. "His name is Foggy."

*

[Image description: A newspaper clipping with the following text:

To the Editor:

Re: “Flame On: America’s kid brother takes music industry less by storm than by drizzle” (Arts & Entertainment section, April 3rd):

I enjoyed Mr. Murdock’s review of Johnny Storm’s new solo album, and can’t disagree with his final analysis of the record as “so effervescent as to, in the long run, leave no lasting impression whatsoever.” As usual, Mr. Murdock’s encyclopedic knowledge of pop history added depth and context to what otherwise would have been a cheap shot across Mr. Storm’s bows.

However, I have to wonder why fully half of the article (I counted) was given over to talking about Foggy Nelson, who wrote all of one song for Mr. Storm. Admittedly, Mr. Murdock is correct that it’s the best song on the album, but the attention paid seems disproportionate to Mr. Nelson’s contributions. I can’t help but notice that Mr. Murdock indulged in similar digressions recently: in his review of the March 14th Mary Janes concert, where they performed only two Nelson songs, and his profile on Clint Barton, who has never actually worked with Mr. Nelson.

Who even is Foggy Nelson, seriously? Calm down.

Becky Blake  
Brooklyn Heights]

*

Matt sighs as he hears Peter approaching him in the _Bugle_ bullpen, and takes out his earbud. Better to get this over with. 

Peter doesn’t start laughing until he actually sits down on the edge of Matt’s desk and folds the day’s paper over to, presumably, the Letters to the Editor section. “‘Who even is Foggy Nelson, seriously? Calm down,’” he reads out loud, then loses it again.

Matt takes a calming breath through his nose. “Are you done? Because some of us have actual work to do.”

“Writing ‘Matt Murdock plus Foggy Nelson equals true love’ over and over again doesn’t count as work,” Peter says. “Although so far you have tricked Jameson into paying you for it multiple times, I’m not sure how you managed that.”

Matt raises his eyebrows. “Oh, are we talking about things we’ve scammed Jameson into paying us for? Remind me again how you got all those pictures of Sp--”

“Okay, yes, fine, you’ve made your point,” Peter says quickly. He taps the paper in his hand. “But you have to admit, so does this person.”

“As a professional music critic, I felt that a retrospective of some of Foggy Nelson’s better-known ballads would put ‘Torch Song’ into greater context,” Matt says with great dignity. “If Jane Whoever from Park Slope doesn’t agree, that’s her problem.”

“There _are_ no ‘better-known Foggy Nelson songs!’ You’re the only one who cares about this ex-boy-bander!” Peter says, throwing up his hands with a papery rustle.

“He’s had multiple number one hits - ”

“As a _songwriter_. No one knows his name! Which, what kind of name is ‘Foggy,’ anyway?” Peter tilts his head musingly. “What if he takes your name after the wedding? ‘Foggy Murdock.’ Sounds like a bog creature from a children’s book. Stay out of the swamp or the Foggy Murdock will get you!”

“Peter, why are you standing here talking nonsense?” Ben asks from behind Peter, making him jump. Matt hides a smirk. “Spider-sense,” his ass. “Go take a photo of something before Jameson fires you again.”

“Nah, he’s already fired me once this week, he’ll probably wait until Monday,” Peter says.

“And Matt, quit planning your wedding and get me that piece on the Bishop kid, we have to finish tomorrow’s layouts,” Ben continues, and Peter snickers audibly.

Matt sighs. “Yes, boss.” He’s used to this kind of teasing from Peter. He’s used to all kinds of teasing from Peter, now, although it took quite a few months of Peter following him around at work - and on the city’s rooftops - for Matt to let his guard down around him. Matt’s not… _great_ at the whole “having friends” thing. But he likes Peter, despite himself, and he’ll put up with some good-natured ribbing about his intellectual appreciation for Foggy Nelson’s work for the sake of having someone to drink a beer with on Friday evenings after work, or a cup of coffee with at three a.m. from on top of a water tower.

Ben, from his lofty position as Arts and Entertainment editor, doesn’t usually join in on the jokes. The fact that he has - and that there was an actual letter from a reader about it - maybe means that Matt needs to rein in the Foggy references a bit.

Even if it _is_ usually relevant. It’s not _Matt’s_ fault that Foggy’s significant contributions to the contemporary pop landscape have gone mostly overlooked.

Ben heads back to his office and Peter leans in. “I’m best man, right? Because I give a heck of a wedding toast, ask anyone.”

Matt rolls his eyes and tips his chin back to make sure the gesture translates even with his glasses on. “Would you give it a rest? I just like the man’s writing, okay? It’s not like I’m ever gonna meet him.” Oops. That’s...that’s probably giving too much away.

Sure enough, Peter laughs and gives him what he probably thinks is a gentle punch to the shoulder. “Hey, never say never, pal! Keep hope alive.”

“Go away, Peter. I have work to do,” Matt drawls, putting his earbud back in. There’s no point in saying that there was never any hope in the first place. Meeting Foggy is a ridiculous fantasy, and not one that Matt’s even bothered to spin - much - in the years since he discovered Foggy’s voice. Matt’s not one to waste his time daydreaming about something that’ll never happen, and that’s likely to be disappointing even if it _did_.

After all, what would he even say?

*

"I said give me your wallet!"

Matt cocks his head towards the sound, then shifts his weight on his swing so that his billy club cable carries him towards it. It’s been a quiet evening so far and he was close to packing it in, but it sounds like someone needs Daredevil after all.

He flips into the alley, flicking the billy club to unhook the far end from its mooring, and lands in a crouch between the mugger and his victim. Both of their hearts are racing but it's easy to tell who is who, considering one smells like fear and the other smells like cocaine and gunpowder. "Back off," he growls.

"Fuck you, man! I'll fucking kill you!"

Oh, please. The mugger's waving his gun around but Matt straightens up and calmly swings the free end of his billy club. It cracks into the mugger's skull. He drops. "No, I don't think you will."

"Holy shit," says the victim from behind him.

Right. Matt hopes he doesn't start crying. He likes saving people but he's no good at comforting them. "Are you okay, sir?" he asks, pressing the button to retract the billy club cable and slipping the pieces into his thigh holster as he turns.

"Yeah, I'm, um. I'm fine." The voice is oddly familiar, which is strange, because the heartbeat isn't. Neither is the general shape, or the smell, though it's pleasant under the rankness of fear: vanilla, coffee, wax and resin and brass. "He didn't...he just...good, uh, good timing."

Well, he doesn't _sound_ like he's about to cry, or faint, which means Matt can be on his way. "Glad I could help."

"Yeah, you - I mean, oh shit, sorry, thank you! I should have said that to begin with. Sorry. Thank you. I don't have my superhero etiquette down yet, Mister...uh. Mister Daredevil? Mister Devil? Sir? I don't really know what to call you."

Matt freezes. He _knows_ that voice. Sure, it sounds different when he speaks than when he sings, but it's still recognizable, still light and pleasant, and also Matt has listened to every interview he's ever recorded at least twice.

It's Foggy Nelson.

It's _Foggy fucking Nelson_ , who has been Matt's favorite singer since he was thirteen and his favorite songwriter since he was seventeen and whose latest album is currently in Matt's record player at home and he is standing right there and he smells like fucking _vanilla_.

"Uh...excuse me? Daredevil? Are you okay?" Foggy. Foggy Nelson - Foggy Nelson! - is _talking to him_.

"I. Yes!” Matt's voice comes out too high. Crap. Lower it, lower it, Daredevil voice. "I'm fine. Uh, citizen." Too low, he sounds like a bad James Earl Jones impression.

"O...kay?" Now Foggy - Foggy! - kind of sounds like he wants to laugh. "Because you were just kind of standing there."

Would it be weird to ask for his autograph? Yes, obviously, especially because Matt wouldn't actually be able to see it and also doesn't have anything to sign. Why didn’t he ever fantasize about this more? Why didn’t he have a _plan?_ "I was...thinking about crime."

He is an _idiot_.

"Right, I guess you...do that a lot." Foggy clears his throat. _His beautiful throat._ "I'm just...I'll just...go into the studio now."

Matt can sense him pointing. This must be a recording studio, then, and he's got to admire their soundproofing if even _his_ ears weren't able to pick that up. "Oh, do you...are you a musician?" _Be cool, Murdock._

"I dabble." There's a brightness in Foggy's voice that sounds like a smile. _Oh._ Matt made him _smile_. "Thanks again, Daredevil. You are quite possibly a literal lifesaver."

Matt licks his lips and pulls out his billy club. He didn't get to do any particularly impressive moves before; now's the chance to fix that. "You're very welcome...Mr. Nelson," he says, and flicks his wrist as he presses the release on the cable. One of the clubs hooks around a fire escape and Matt swings up and away before Foggy can respond, throwing a double half-twist flip into it just because he can. Just because Foggy Nelson - Foggy Nelson! - is watching.

"Wow," he hears Foggy murmur from below.

Luckily, Matt is a superhero, and gets all the way to the roof and out of sight before he performs his victory dance.

*

[](https://i.imgur.com/aeis4Z2.jpg)

[Image description: A triptych of album covers. From left to right: 

1\. A picture of a female mannequin that strongly resembles a blow-up doll from the shoulders up with shoulder-length, curly red hair. Scrawled over the cover in messy white text, partially covering the doll’s face, are the words “Black Widow” and “Budapest.”

2\. Michael B. Jordan looking intense and smoldering (zing!) next to a chain link fence, with a semi-transparent image of fire overlaid on him. On the bottom are the words “Johnny Storm” and an enlarged flame emoji. In the upper right hand corner, an orange sticker says “Featuring the smash hit single ‘It’s Lit.’”

3\. A blonde woman on a bed, wearing lingerie and red lipstick, the upper part of her face obscured. A man’s naked legs are visible behind her. White block text says “Dazzler” and “Drink the Eel.”]

*

_“This bottle doesn’t have a label or a name...Take a whack, knock it back, that’s how you play the game…”_

Matt’s fingers twitch instinctively to the beat, tinny through Claire’s cheap radio but familiar. The needle bites into his skin but it’s easy to ignore the small, sharp pain, drowned out by his many significantly worse injuries, courtesy of the surprisingly competent knife fighters he just stopped from robbing the local bodega. And by the song.

_“Gonna spill my secrets, tell you everything I feel...That’s what happens when you drink the eel.”_

“...open these again, okay? You have to let them heal this time or you’re going to look like Frankenstein when I have to stitch you up again. Are you listening to me, Matt?”

Matt startles slightly. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you okay? You’re not losing consciousness, are you?” Claire asks. “You said you didn’t take any blows to the head…”

“No, I’m fine, I was just.” Matt feels his face heat up slightly. “Distracted by the music.”

“Oh.” Claire sounds puzzled. “Sorry. Let me finish this suture and I’ll turn it off.”

“No!” That was definitely too loud. “No, it’s fine, I, I like this song.”

“ _Really_.” And now that’s amusement in Claire’s voice. “I didn’t know you were such a Dazzler fan.”

“I’m not. I mean, I like her fine, but, uh. This is a Foggy Nelson song.”

Claire’s hand stills on his shoulder. “Foggy Nelson. Why does that name sound familiar?”

Because Matt saved him from a mugger last night and he was polite and charming and it seems like even more of a travesty that the world at large doesn't know what a genius he is?

Matt ducks his head. He’s definitely blushing by now. “He’s, um, he’s a songwriter.”

“No.” There’s the swish of Claire’s hair against her shoulders as she shakes her head. “No, I don’t know anything about songwriters, why do I know that name?”

Matt sighs. He got himself into this, after all. “Do you remember Boy Wonder?”

Claire’s spine straightens. “Wait. Yes. That’s the boy band Rick Jones was in, right? In like 2001?” Matt nods. “No, no, I remember now. God, I had such a crush on Bucky Barnes, he was so cute back before...well, everything.”

Matt waits.

She tilts her head. “Wait. Foggy Nelson...he was one of the other kids in the band, right? The one who always wore a bandana?”

Matt just barely suppresses another sigh. No one ever describes Foggy as “the really talented singer.” Or “the one who smells really, really good” which is unfair because then Matt might’ve been _prepared_. “Yeah. He wrote this. And he does some of the backing vocals.”

“No way,” Claire says. “Are you sure?”

Yes, Matt’s sure. Even if Foggy’s songwriting habits weren’t as obvious to Matt’s ears as the distinctive whorls in a fingerprint - the extended lyrical metaphors, the fondness for contrapuntal melodies, the perverse tendency for the tune to get increasingly sprightly as the lyrics got angrier or sadder - he followed the making of Dazzler’s comeback album as closely as he could once Foggy’s name was first floated in connection with it. From what he can tell, she pursued Foggy aggressively. It paid off. “Drink the Eel” is the third mega-smash off the album, and though the video with its bizarre choreography certainly helped - it’s lost on Matt, but apparently YouTube is overflowing with videos of people doing the Eel at home - the relentless catchiness of the hook can’t be denied.

And then there’s Foggy’s _voice_. It’s all over the album, albeit buried in the rich choral arrangements - but Matt can hear it. Buttressing the tenor line, splitting from Dazzler’s main melodic thread in eerily discordant harmony, ringing like a bell on the falsettos. On “Drink the Eel” Foggy sinks into his bottom notes, growling an echo of Dazzler’s lead vocal that helps to give the song its disorienting, drunken giddiness. Of course, he’s in a backing arrangement of five other voices, but Matt can hear it. Matt can hear _him_.

But Matt doesn’t say any of that. Nor does he explain that Foggy also smells like resin and brass and he's _funny_ and he apparently records not five blocks away from here and that Matt _talked to him_ not twenty-four hours ago, actually spoke to him in the flesh and breathed his air. Something makes Matt want to keep that story close, keep it hidden and precious like his dad's battered rosary and boxing robe.

“Yeah,” he says again, instead.

Claire gives a little shrug and goes back to stitching him up. “I guess you’d know, right?” She makes an amused noise.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” Claire breaks off the end of the suture and sets it aside, then picks up a cotton pad. “It’s a little incongruous. Mild-mannered music critic by day, grim vigilante by night.”

“It could’ve been worse,” Matt says, and he knows he shouldn’t flirt, knows Claire put the kibosh on that and rightfully so, but he can’t help letting a playful tone creep into his voice. Even with Foggy’s voice purring out of her radio. “I almost went to law school.”

“Ha!” Claire tapes the bandage in place. “Why didn’t you?”

Matt shrugs, then winces as it pulls at his new stitches. Claire _tsks_ at him. “Couldn’t afford it. And, I don’t know. I wanted to do something that involved music.”

“You could've been an entertainment lawyer,” Claire suggests teasingly. “Making the big bucks for Tony Stark or someone.”

“I'm happy where I am,” Matt says, and it's true - or at least, he's as happy as someone like him can reasonably expect to be, and that will have to suffice.

If he'd been Tony Stark’s lawyer he probably would've met Foggy properly by now, in some copyright lawsuit or just maybe randomly, in the halls of Stark Tower. He would've said something understated but appreciative, maybe complimented one of Foggy's lesser known hits, and Foggy would've thanked him, and then…

He’s being ridiculous. He met Foggy. He _spoke_ to him. That’s more than he ever expected. Daredevil meeting Foggy is plenty; it’s too much to hope that Matt Murdock might do the same.

“You _must_ really like this song,” Claire says, and Matt startles again and turns towards her.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been smiling since it came on.”

*

[Image description: A Twitter conversation between Matt and Foggy. Foggy’s avatar is a slightly scruffy picture of Elden Henson with a mustache and goatee. Matt's avatar is the Daily Bugle logo, a drawing of a bugle superimposed over laurel leaves. Tweets are as follows:

@mattmurdock: Anyone else going to @therealfoggynelson show at Bar Nine tonight? It'll be great to hear some of his new self-titled live.

@therealfoggynelson: @mattmurdock Thanks for the plug, dude! Any requests for tonight?

@mattmurdock: @therealfoggynelson I bet “Could Have Been A Butcher” is great live.

@therealfoggynelson: @mattmurdock You got it, dude! Stay for the encore. And make sure to come backstage to say hi after the show!

Matt has favorited the last tweet.]

*

The next time Matt hears Foggy in concert, it’s six months later, but the secret thrill of having met him still hasn’t worn off. 

Foggy doesn't close with “Could Have Been A Butcher.” He saves that spot for Boy Wonder's biggest hit, “You're My World,” which he's stripped down to a minimalist acoustic arrangement for those attending for supposedly ironic reasons. Matt's heard him play “You’re My World” countless times at tiny shows just like this one; it's rarely fresh, but it's always fun to listen to the crowd react with nostalgia and barely-concealed joy. Foggy didn't write it - he didn't write any of Boy Wonder's songs - but the way he performs it exposes what a beautiful song it really is: the simple but evocative chords, the well-timed modulations, the ineffably sticky melody. Foggy's arrangement reveals what Matt had heard in the song when he’d listened to it over and over as a teenager. He’ll never tire of it.

But “Butcher” does open the encore, even though its chords are a little more complex and diminished and its lyrics are a little more wistful and bittersweet than most of Foggy’s more crowd-pleasing pop. He doesn't mention Matt when he introduces it - “This one's from my new album - yes, I know, I know, I'm sorry, 'You're My World' is next" - which obviously was completely unreasonable for Matt to expect or even hope for in his deepest subconscious. Foggy does play the song, though.

Matt fingers the backstage pass on the table in front of him. Bar Nine is a tiny venue - it's more of a restaurant with a stage, really - but it does have a green room, and he suspects that the owner thinks the required all-accesses will draw in more up-and-coming acts. Like every tour laminate, there's no Braille, so it doesn't feel any different from any of the others in his desk drawer at the _Bugle_. He touches the chain and thinks about looping it around his neck when the show is over. He thinks about meeting Foggy, face to face, no mask or alias or Twitter interface between them.

He tries to remember how to breathe normally.

When the lights come up, Matt listens to see if anyone else is going backstage - maybe one of the twenty-something women at the next table over who must have been just the right age during Boy Wonder's heyday. But the rest of the modest crowd is slowly filing out or settling their tabs at the bar. Matt collects his coat, scarf and cane, and then, with no hands left for it, puts on the laminate.

There's no actual security, so he follows the smell of cheese and crudite down a narrow hall, past the restrooms, and to a closed door near the rear exit. Foggy (!) is inside, alone, popping balls of cantaloupe into his mouth one by one with his fingers. His acoustic guitar lies caseless on a folding table, strings still reverberating very slightly from the show. He's humming to himself under his breath, a melody Matt doesn't know, and Matt thinks about setting up camp and living in this exact spot forever.

A straggler exits the bathroom and Matt realizes that silently leaning against the talent's door probably wouldn't be great for his reputation as a critic. He knocks and, after an affirmative sounding grunt around a mouthful of melon, opens the door.

Matt adjusts his glasses to cover his expression as the full force of Foggy Smell hits him. Even six months later, it’s just like he remembers it. Oh God. "Excuse me, is this the green room?"

Foggy has his back to the door, still poking around the food spread. "Yeah, who're you looking for?"

Matt summons every bit of the courage that allows him to go out at night and punch criminals in the face to step inside the room and close the door. "My name is Matt Murdock. I'm from the _Bugle?_ "

"Oh, yeah, hi! I just wanted to say hey and thanks for all the good pr--uhh. Uh. The good press. And the tweets. And the. Hi. So. Thanks."

Foggy Nelson is talking to him. Foggy Nelson is talking to _him_ and no one else and the room is definitely empty except for Matt and just Matt is there. Matt is definitely there. So is Foggy. Foggy Nelson is right there, choked and trying to swallow a mouthful of melon. And Foggy had...Foggy had gotten tripped up sometime between when he started talking and when he'd whirled around to face Matt. Something had happened. What had happened? Matt wills his brain to overpower the automatic shutdown that's happening in Foggy's presence. What was it what was it what was - 

Oh! Matt's blind. Foggy didn't know that Matt is blind.

"Um, you're welcome," Matt says, hoping it hasn't been too long since Foggy’s spoken. "Sorry. I'm blind."

"No - yes! Yes, of course. Sorry, my mouth got away from me." Foggy is furiously wiping his fingers off on his t-shirt and tucking his hair behind his ears. A faint whiff of Foggy's sweat from the show hits the tip of Matt's tongue. "You don't, uh, you don't have to apologize for being blind any more than you have to apologize for being really hot."

Matt loses the fight against his brain. He's careening towards shutdown. "Uh - um."

A beat of silence hangs between them. The air smells of cherry wood and sweat and _vanilla_ and something that Matt can't place.

"Oh! Uh. Not that - um. _Please_ keep writing nice things about me, you really are the only one, Marci keeps joking that we should put you on the payroll - "

The green room door opens and all at once Matt's brain comes back online, and with it his senses - particularly his hearing, so the door is like a war drum and there's a loud, fast thumping and as a tall woman walks into the room Matt realizes belatedly that the thumping is Foggy's _heart_ and the strange smell is Foggy's _arousal_ and oh God somehow in this waking dream over a decade in the making, Foggy Nelson is _into Matt_.

Suddenly Matt can barely hear anything over the sound of his own heart, and he feels more short of breath than he did after parkouring across fifteen blocks the night before.

Then long fingers are taking his hand and Foggy is saying "Karen, this is Matt Murdock from the _Bugle_ ," and the woman is saying "Thanks for coming, Mr. Murdock," and Matt is saying nothing because he's frozen in place and _Foggy Nelson's_ heart is hovering around 150 bpm because of _Matt_.

Matt is still holding Karen's hand. "Th-thanks for having me." Matt can feel his whole body flush, but now that the words have started back up again, he can't stop them. "Foggy puts on a great show. Of course he does, he writes great music."

Sometime when Matt's senses were offline, Foggy had grabbed a stick of celery and is now chewing on it nervously, the stalk sticking out of the corner of his mouth like a cartoon mobster. "Buddy," he says around it, "you are _literally_ too kind."

Matt can sense Karen looking between him and Foggy but can't get enough feedback to read her expression. "You're a real fan, aren't you?" she asks Matt.

Understatement of the century. "Well, sure."

"Would the _Bugle_ ever run a profile on Foggy? Maybe for the Sunday pull-out?"

Matt's fingers itch for his voice recorder reflexively. "I'd have to clear it with my editor, but I'd - " _Keep it together, Murdock._ "I'd be happy to write one."

In Matt's radar vision, Foggy literally lights up.

"Great," Karen says, pulling a pen out of her purse. "If I write down Foggy's number on this business card, will you be able to read it?"

_Foggy's number._ "Uh, if you press hard enough I should be able to read by touch."

She hands him the card. Matt redirects all his willpower to stopping his fingers from shaking. And to think, he thought the laminate would be his most valuable document from the evening.

"I, uh, I'll call you," Matt says, and the words sound distant, like he's outside himself, blocks away. "Once I - once I talk to my editor."

"Awesome," Foggy says, and even though it's quiet, nearly a sigh, Matt can hear a melody in it. It's the best song he's ever heard.

"Thanks for a great show." Matt turns and leaves before he can embarrass himself any more. He'll call Foggy later. _Foggy. Later._

The door closes behind him, and he works his way back through the now-empty restaurant, towards the street. He can still hear Foggy Nelson's heart, slower than before but still faster than average. He clings to the sound as long as he can, until he crosses Tenth Avenue.

The last thing he hears before he's out of Bar Nine's range completely is Karen's voice: "That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally what would anyone do without Karen.
> 
> Want to hear Foggy's soundalikes and influences? Check out the Boy Wonder playlist [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/puzzleboat/playlist/1xoZmqofbC0q1tDoQFyvgv)!
> 
> We have a _lot_ of headcanons for this world, so let us know in the comments what you'd like to see annotations on! What real life pop star inspired Foggy's career? Who runs Stark Records? (Come on, you already know it's Pepper.) What happened to Bucky??? Or maybe you just want to see the tracklistings for various in-universe albums. We have answers!


	2. A Work in Progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click the newspaper layout to read it at full size!

**Former boy bander releases promising, cerebral solo effort**  
By Matt Murdock  
Spectator Staff Writer  
October 16, 2007  
[5 stars]

For most, the boy band boom of the late 1990s offered an endless parade of the same five pubescent boys proficient in close harmonies and intermediate choreography. But for those born between 1987 and 1991, a mention of Boy Wonder may bring to mind a wave of nostalgia and the timeless hook of “You’re My World,” their effervescent and endlessly catchy 1999 top ten hit.

But even boy bandom’s most devoted millennial followers may be pressed to remember members of Boy Wonder besides tabloid magnet Bucky Barnes, erstwhile frontman Rick Jones, or perhaps bleach-blonde baby Flash Thompson—which leaves would-be also-rans Happy Hogan and Foggy Nelson in the dubious zone of post-fame anonymity.

Nelson—whose solo debut album, _Wonderlust_ , hits stores and iTunes on Tuesday—seems to have used that anonymity to his advantage. While attending LaGuardia High School, the Manhattan native began recording his own amateur demos and sending them to record labels, expecting little in return. But when at 16 he delivered a bombastic pop ballad intended for a female singer to Shield Records, Boy Wonder’s former label, gold was struck—and more than a few gold records.

That demo eventually became “Nothing But The Truth,” Darla Deering’s world-conquering 2004 hit in the wake of being crowned Fox’s _Ms. Thing_. Deering reaped the primary benefits of that success, but it was Nelson’s strong sense of melody and sophisticated chord progressions that caught the ear of Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Records. It didn’t take long for Stark to sign Nelson to a lucrative publishing and recording deal.

The fruits of that deal have finally arrived with _Wonderlust_ , a cerebral and soulful debut that will no doubt one day be included in the canon of all-time great pop albums.

Nelson’s gift for melody is on full display here, as on album opener “Tenth Avenue,” an energetic track that uses intricate harmonies and circular rhythms to paint a vivid aural picture of a New York neighborhood and the lonely hearts who live there. One needn’t be sighted to see Hell’s Kitchen through Nelson’s eyes.

With confidence and unselfconsciousness, Nelson lays bare his influences. “Was Anything Ever Real” draws harmonic inspiration from Jeff Lynne, Todd Rundgren, and Jon Brion to form a lush, bittersweet examination of a failed relationship. On the coy, vintage-inspired “Josie,” he emulates Motown masters Smokey Robinson and Holland-Dozier-Holland as well as “Piano Man” Billy Joel in order to describe a hardened bartender and the regular customers she tolerates. On “Hammers and Nails” and “Yes,” Nelson employs maximalist production drawn from Phil Spector and Jim Steinman to illustrate his argument that no feeling is too small to be undeserving of grandiosity.

But it’s not just Nelson’s composition and production that make _Wonderlust_ undoubtedly one of 2007’s best—it’s his performance.

Though he never captured the fame of some of his bandmates, Foggy Nelson was always Boy Wonder’s secret vocal weapon. Nelson’s pitch was perfect even as an 11-year-old, and the band’s Swedish producers relied on the strength of his boyish alto to fill out the mixes of slick—but masterful—songs like “You’re My World.”

Now 19, Nelson’s vocal quality has obviously changed, but it hasn’t at all degraded. His ability to convey emotion through a vocal performance has matured into a nimble, nuanced instrument, which he uses to tremendous effect on _Wonderlust_ tracks like “I Believed You,” where he employs a light, joking tone that barely conceals simmering anger. “A Work in Progress” is a universal anthem for newly-blossoming love, and Nelson conveys that giddy hope impeccably.

It’s Nelson’s canny, masterful use of his own vocals—never content to appear in a single melodic line but rather woven throughout each track like an orchestra all its own—that elevates seemingly-frivolous tracks like “Top Gun” (on which Nelson croons, “You’ll be my Maverick and I’ll be your Goose / We’ll take to the sky and you’ll never cut me loose”) and “Shark Attack” (where the bridge soars, “Look at me / I’m delicious”) to some of the album’s best moments.

On _Wonderlust_ , Nelson leaves no melodic stone or emotional pebble unturned, in the grand tradition of the pop masters unconcerned with coolness—whose uncomplicated musical credibility both lent them a certain elusive caché and also unlocked the secrets of sublime pop songwriting.

Nelson’s appealing fearlessness extends to the album’s final track, “Eleven,” which confronts his past as a prepubescent pop star. It’s here that Nelson’s maximalism finally deflates, as if his exhaustive bombast was in part to keep this at bay. In a stripped-down piano ballad, Nelson quintuples his own voice into a five-part harmony reminiscent of Boy Wonder at their best. But instead of the insipid, lovelorn lyrics of boy bands past, Nelson interrogates his experience as a child who was packaged and marketed to other children before being discarded when his supposed shelf-life expired. It’s heart-wrenchingly sincere, a bittersweet cherry on a lush and earnest cake of a debut album.

_Wonderlust_ proves that, in actuality, Foggy Nelson’s expiration date is far in the future. A truly gifted singer and songwriter, he deserves a long, rich career creating studied, inventive, and endlessly appealing pop music for those who truly appreciate him. If there’s any justice in the musical landscape, he will achieve just that.

[](https://i.imgur.com/nM0TFgD.jpg)

[Image description: The Arts & Entertainment page from the Columbia student paper, dated October 16th, 2007. In the upper right-hand corner is an inset of an album cover, with a black and white picture of Elden Henson in his early twenties (...I’m guessing?) with short hair and a chin strip goatee (Elden why). The album text is sideways and reads “Foggy Nelson: Wonderlust.” There’s a Stark Records logo in the bottom left-hand corner.

At the bottom of the page is a picture of an all-female rock band performing, with a dark-haired singer/guitarist front and center and the header “Elektra Complex rocks out at Heights Cafe.” The photo credit says “Peter Parker [Columbia Daily Spectator].”

The rest of the page consists of the review above.]

*

If Foggy had just been a child with perfect pitch, that would have been enough. Matt’s not going to credit Boy Wonder’s music with getting him through the aftermath of the accident - that was his dad, and occupational therapy, and _therapy_ therapy, and having things like learning Braille to focus on instead of the overwhelming sensory input all around him, and even Stick.

Boy Wonder helped, though. Foggy’s voice was a gift Matt can never repay or even explain. And it would have been enough, really it would have.

But then Foggy turned out to be a great songwriter, a teenage prodigy with an inexplicable talent for hooks that snagged on Matt’s ribcage and _yanked_. And his voice mellowed and deepened with age from a clear, boyish alto to a warm tenor that wraps around the notes he sings like he’s hiding a laugh. And he’s smart and funny and never shitty in interviews about having been in a boy band as a child and he never, ever talks publicly about things that shouldn’t be public, like the band’s breakup or Bucky Barnes’s accident and subsequent trips to rehab, which Matt admires.

And he smells like _vanilla_.

But somehow the impossibly long list of ways Foggy Nelson is apparently the world’s greatest human has just gotten even _longer_ , because he was born and raised not four blocks from Matt’s childhood home, and he still lives in Hell’s Kitchen. He even asked to meet at a coffee shop in the neighborhood - not Starbucks, but a locally-owned business that makes their own scones and doesn’t over-roast their coffee - and now Matt is sitting a block away from his home, tucked into a small table at the back of the cafe with _Foggy Nelson_ (!) and interviewing him for a profile in the _Bugle_.

Matt ordered green tea. Foggy ordered a pumpkin spice latte flavored with one of those awful artificial syrups, but then, no one’s perfect.

“I can’t believe we grew up four blocks away from each other. That’s crazy,” Foggy says. His body language is warm and inviting: knees apart, chest open except for when he leans in to catch what Matt’s saying. Matt may be speaking more quietly than usual to encourage this. “Did you go to P.S. 111?”

“Yeah, while my dad was still - ” Matt catches himself. Foggy doesn’t need to know his whole tragic history. “I mean, I went to parochial school after that, but yeah, P.S. 111 for elementary.”

“Small world. I mean, me too, obviously, through fourth grade. I had tutors for a while after I got signed.” Foggy says it matter-of-factly, without either embarrassment over his days as a child star or any hint of vanity. It’s still the closest they’ve come to actually talking about music or Foggy’s career; the forty-five minutes of chatter about the neighborhood already recorded on Matt’s phone won’t do him any good for the profile he begged and pleaded with Ben to let him write, but he _will_ be saving them to his computer, his external hard drive, and probably a thumb drive too. He’ll keep that last with Foggy’s card - too precious to carry around, Matt’s committed the number to memory already - the laminate from the concert, and his original copy of Boy Wonder’s debut CD, worn out from too many repeat listens.

“Why’d you stay in the neighborhood?” Matt asks. His voice is so normal by now only someone with ears like his could hear the difference, or the way his heart has never really settled into its resting pace, and kicks into overdrive every time Foggy laughs or accidentally bumps Matt’s foot with his own. “I mean, it’s not really trendy enough for a pop star.”

He grins to show he’s kidding and is rewarded with both a snort from Foggy, and a slight uptick in Foggy’s own heartbeat. God. “Well, it’s home,” Foggy says easily. “And my parents are still here, I like to be nearby in case they need anything. My dad owns Nelson’s Hardware on 48th, do you know it?”

“No way.” Matt can still remember it, dimly, the faded sign above the door and the intimidating power tools section in the back. “I used to go there with my dad all the time when I was a kid! We lived in a pretty beat-up apartment, things were always breaking.” His cheeks warm slightly, but he knows the block Foggy grew up on, and his building couldn’t have been in much better repair.

“Yeah? We probably saw each other, I was always hanging around the store back then,” Foggy says. “This is clearly fate. You were meant to, I don’t know, get a press copy of my EP or however it was you heard of me.”

“Yeah,” Matt echoes, and slides his hands around his mug so he won’t fidget them. Foggy doesn’t need to know about that worn-out CD in his closet, in a box beneath his Daredevil suit. “It...yeah.”

“Oh, sorry,” Foggy says quickly. “I didn’t mean to be like, ‘let’s talk about the music now.’ Although I also didn’t mean to keep you here for...shit.” There’s a shuffle as he checks his phone. “Wow, sorry, I have been talking your ear off. You probably want to get this done and get out of here.”

“No!” It comes out way too fast and way too loud. “Uh, you haven’t been...it’s good. It’s, uh, it’s all useful for the profile. I mean, yeah, we should talk about the music, I do want to talk about that, but this is...I’m having a good time.”

Oh no. Matt doesn’t slide under the table to hide forever, but it’s a near thing.

But Foggy blooms with warmth and his heartbeat picks up again, from a midtempo spring release to a summer jam. “Okay,” he says, soft and warm. “Good. Yeah. I’m...me too.”

“Good,” Matt echoes, cheeks burning. But he’s smiling.

Foggy’s foot taps a beat against the floor, and Matt can’t tell if it’s brushing his on purpose, but he doesn’t move away. “So,” he says. “Should we talk about the music now?”

Matt minutely adjusts the phone on the table between them. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s talk about the music.”

*

“MURDOCK! URICH! MY OFFICE! _NOW!_ ”

Matt jumps like he’s been electrocuted. He knew a storm was brewing in Jameson’s office, could hear his heartbeat speeding up and the angry little huffs he lets out when he’s looking at work he doesn’t think is up to snuff, but it’s usually Peter’s name that gets bellowed, not Matt’s.

He stands up and hurries to Jameson’s office, trailing his fingers along the line of cubicles as he goes. “Behind you, Matt,” Ben says as he falls into step with him, and Matt nods.

Jameson’s standing up when they get to his office - the better to attempt to intimidate, probably. “What the hell is this, Murdock?” he asks, shaking something that rustles at him.

“It sounds like paper,” Matt says mildly.

“Jonah,” Ben admonishes, then adds, “It's your Nelson profile, Matt.”

“It's crap, is what it is!” Jameson shouts. “I let Urich here talk me into letting you interview some has-been no one’s ever heard of, and what do I get? Fluff!”

“It's a profile of a singer-songwriter, not an expose,” Matt points out.

“There's three paragraphs about a hardware store that went out of business seven years ago!” Jameson bellows. “You asked this asshole about _chord progression_. You used the word ‘polyphony.’ No one wants to read this garbage!”

“Actually, I think Mr. Nelson’s use of polyphony is…”

“No one knows what that is, Murdock. It sounds like a damn horse orgy.”

Ben stifles a laugh, and Matt stifles a sigh. “I was just trying to explore his inspirations and methodology…”

“Screw his methodology. Where's the _dirt?_ ”

“Uh, he's not really a scandalous…”

“Not on _this_ nobody. Why didn't you ask him about Bucky Barnes, for Christ’s sake? Or even whatshisface, Jones.” Jameson thumps the paper with his free hand. “You say he used to be on Shield Records when he was a kid but now he's on Stark’s label - where's _that_ story? Joe Public doesn't want to read about some wannabe poet being inspired by the birdsong of Hell’s Kitchen or whatever bullshit you've got down here. Joe Public wants to read about a former child star snorting cocaine off a hooker’s ass in Tony Stark’s penthouse!”

“I don't think he does that,” Matt says. He _knows_ Foggy doesn’t do that. Foggy’s too good for that.

“Well, you know what _I_ don’t do? Give up perfectly good space in my paper for a seven thousand word yawn!”

“Are you pulling the profile?” Matt asks, trying to keep his voice level. He doesn’t care about the writing - though he worked _hard_ on the piece, trying to recapture the intimacy of a long conversation with Foggy about everything and anything - but he promised Foggy a profile. He _imposed_ on Foggy, and now Jameson’s going to make it all for nothing.

“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” Jameson barks. “What else are we gonna put in next Sunday’s edition if we yank this? Go back and ask some _real_ questions!”

Matt blinks. “You want me to...interview him again? More?”

“Until you’ve got something I can print, yes!”

“Oh. Uh. Okay. I’ll just - I’ll do that,” Matt says. “I’ll...sorry. I’ll turn in something better. Right away. Uh. Sir.”

He beats a hasty retreat out of Jameson’s office, hurrying back to his desk. He can hear Ben behind him.

“Don’t take it too hard, Matt,” Ben says. “You know Jonah’s all bark and no bite. It was a good profile, he just wants something with a little more...well. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, you know?”

“Sure,” Matt says.

“You’re still a good writer,” Ben assures him.

“Thanks.”

“You gonna be okay?”

Matt nods vehemently. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, and Ben claps him on the shoulder before walking away. Which was what Matt wanted him to do, because now, with his face turned into his cubicle and down towards his refreshable Braille display, he doesn’t have to work so hard to hide the grin that’s threatening to overtake his face.

He has an excuse to call Foggy _back_.

*

“This is amazing. I love this,” Foggy says, running his fingers along the wall of boxy IKEA shelving that holds Matt’s record collection. “Make up the couch, I’m moving in.”

Matt doesn’t immediately say “Okay” or “Why bother with the couch?” but only because he bites down hard on his tongue to catch it. “Most people think it’s pretentious. Or too much.” Most people who come to Matt’s apartment are pretty put off by the complete lack of interior decorating of any kind. He doesn’t even have a TV, just his sound system, and shelves and shelves of records. At the end is a shelf of CDs he’s been comped, but for the most part anything he can’t find on vinyl he just keeps digitally.

“It’s _literally_ your job to listen to music,” Foggy points out. “Dude, I have _seven_ guitars. I don’t even compose with them. I just fall in love too easily.”

Matt’s heart thumps hard. “Yeah. I mean. Fair enough.”

He can sense Foggy running his fingers over the Braille labels Matt added to every shelf. “How is this organized?”

“Alphabetically by artist, then by release date,” Matt explains. He touches the label next to Foggy’s fingers. “This says ‘Davis, Miles to The Drifters.’ Then each sleeve is labeled with artist and title. And year, in case I forget.” He tugs a sleeve out to show Foggy. “I keep redoing it when I decide that, say, Miles Davis should really go under ‘M’ for ‘Miles Davis Quintet’ instead of last name. And of course every time I lose my mind on the internet and spend three hundred dollars on records everything has to move.”

“Oh good, I’m not the only one who does that,” Foggy says. “Ask me about the Great Keytar Impulse Purchase of ‘09 some time. No, on second thought, don’t - the wounds are still too fresh.” He tips an album off the shelf to look at the cover and makes an approving sound. “So what are we listening to?”

They seem to have moved past the interview stage, though neither Matt nor Foggy has offered another label for what exactly this is. Not that they’ve skimped on the interviews, either - Jameson wasn’t happy with the softball industry questions Matt gave Foggy on their second meeting and demanded he go back for a third round, during which Matt finally, apologetically, asked about Bucky Barnes. Foggy, sounding distant and sad, gave a very reserved, tactful answer about having many fond memories of his old bandmate and wishing him the best, and that seemed to satisfy Jameson.

(Matt also brought Peter on the second interview to get some shots of Foggy to accompany the profile, with dire warnings of what would happen to Peter if he embarrassed Matt in front of Foggy. “Embarrass you in front of the fourth most popular member of the seventh most popular boy band of fifteen years ago? I would never!” Peter gasped, forcing Matt to trip him with his cane. But the pictures, by all accounts, had turned out pretty well.)

Somewhere, in the middle of interviews and off-topic conversational tangents and coordinating further interviews via phone and what Matt thinks - hopes, _prays_ \- is flirting, the subject of Matt’s record collection came up, and Foggy insisted on seeing it. And now...

Now Foggy’s lying on the floor in front of Matt’s record player, a stack of random record selections next to him, palms flat on the floorboards “to feel the vibrations,” he claims. Matt doesn’t need to be this close to the speakers to pick out every detail, but he’s happy to sit cross-legged next to Foggy and listen to Foggy’s commentary.

“I love this song,” Matt says as the needle drops on another record and the familiar bassline comes up. Foggy’s fingers tap out the beat on the floor.

_“Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy...nothing you could do, ‘cause I’m stuck like glue to my guy…”_

“I would hope so, since it’s your record,” Foggy says, voice wrapped around a smile. “But yeah, me too. I keep threatening to do a whole early sixties pastiche album. Marci thinks I’m nuts.”

“No, you should do it!” Matt says, too excited by the idea to try to play it cool. “I love your vintage-influenced stuff. ‘Josie’ is my favorite song off your first album. And that doo wop chord progression in ‘Every Wednesday,’ off of your latest?” He trails off, realizing he’s babbling like an overenthusiastic fanboy.

But Foggy just reaches out and bumps Matt’s knee with his knuckles affectionately. “See, _you_ get it. I keep saying we should put you on the payroll. Although I guess you’d have to dye your hair.”

“I’d what?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, you wouldn’t know - everyone on Team Nelson is blond.” Foggy snorts. “You know, the whole vast crew of me, Karen, and Marci.”

“Oh.”

“I’m kidding about the hair dye, by the way,” Foggy adds. “You’re perfect already, don’t change a thing.”

“ _Oh._ ” Matt feels his cheeks heat up. Foggy’s fingers tap a little faster than the beat. “Uh, I, uh, I knew you were blond,” Matt says, a little too fast, probably. “I remember - you know, from your music videos, and the Boy Wonder album cover and stuff. Before the accident.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Foggy groans, hand over his eyes. “I was _twelve_. This is _awful_. I was such a goofy-looking kid. And why was I always wearing a bandana?”

“No, it was...you were cute,” Matt protests, not sure how aggressively he should be arguing for how attractive he found Foggy as a tween. He honestly hadn’t paid that much attention until after his accident, anyway. “You’re still blond?”

“Ish,” Foggy admits. “It’s darker, now, sort of dirty blond? Karen’s is closer to what mine looked like back then, except way shinier, and in some lights it looks kind of red. And Marci’s is like this really light, ashy blond - the better to match her cold, vampiric soul, I guess.” He says it with such affection that Matt’s suddenly, wildly jealous.

“Oh,” he says. “Are you and Marci…?”

“Oh, no no no,” Foggy says, stammering a little in his haste. “ _God_ , no. We, uh, we used to be a thing, that’s sort of how we met? Back in college. But just friends-slash-manager-and-client now, promise.”

“Okay,” Matt says, curling his fingers against his palms and resting them on his knees. “Got it.”

_“As a matter of taste to be exact...he’s my ideal as a matter of fact…”_

Matt licks his lips. “So...you _don’t_ wear a bandana all the time now?” he asks, to break the awkward silence.

Foggy laughs, a little too loud. “Only on special occasions,” he says. “Also I’m slightly taller.” He shifts in what reads to Matt’s senses like a horizontal shrug. “I mean, I guess overall I still look pretty much the same. Just...different.” He snorts. “That’s not helpful at _all_ , is it.”

“You tried. But not very hard,” Matt tells him, and is rewarded with another laugh. He opens his fingers to wipe suddenly sweaty palms on his knees. “I could...touch you?” he suggests. Oh, there’s Foggy’s heart, thundering into overdrive. “I mean, your face. I could...it helps me to get an idea. But we don’t have to,” he adds hastily. “If you’re not comfortable with...I mean, I know it’s weird for a lot of people, and it’s okay if you don’t - ”

“Okay,” says Foggy, very quietly.

There’s a buzzing in Matt’s ears. “Okay?” he repeats.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s only fair, right? I know what _you_ look like.” Foggy’s voice wavers slightly, nervous. “Lay ‘em on me.”

Matt swallows. “Okay. I...okay.”

He shifts forward, leaning over Foggy, and holds his hands up. “Where are you?” he asks, even though he could pinpoint Foggy’s face by his breathing and the scent of his hair and the saline in his eyes from three blocks away, let alone on the floor directly in front of him.

“Uh.” Foggy’s hands wrap around Matt’s wrists. His fingers are rough with guitar calluses, but his palms are soft. “Here.”

He brings Matt’s hands down gently, until the tips of his fingers nudge Foggy’s cheekbones, then lets him go. Matt swallows down a ridiculous regret that Foggy isn’t guiding him, isn’t showing Matt exactly how to touch him.

“Let me know if you want me to stop,” he says instead, and brings his hands up to the top of Foggy’s forehead. He brushes soft hair out of the way, skims Foggy’s hairline down past his temples, past his ears, smiling when he traces out the shape of long sideburns. “I didn’t know you had these.”

“Hey. Sideburns are a rock and roll tradition.”

“How Presleyan of you.”

“Thank yuh very much,” Foggy rumbles in a terrible Elvis impression. Matt tries to laugh but it comes out closer to a sigh.

Back up to Foggy’s forehead. There are faint lines across it, worry lines at rest but still tangible to Matt’s fingers. His eyebrows are faint but his lashes are soft and full, and his eyelids tremble under Matt’s touch. Matt licks his lips and skims the sides of Foggy’s nose, short and tilted up a bit, which Matt remembers from the pictures of Foggy as a child.

Foggy’s trying to hold his breath, Matt thinks; it keeps catching and then releasing in a puff of warmth and the sweetness of the Danishes Foggy brought over that he swears are the best in the city. His heart is a prestissimo drumbeat, as high and sharp as a snare.

Matt slides his fingers back up to graze Foggy’s cheekbones, high and angled. He presses gently against the softness of Foggy’s cheeks, the faint rasp of what will be a proper five o’clock shadow in about four hours scratching the pads of his fingers as he moves lower. A rounded chin and softness beneath, in keeping with what he can tell of Foggy’s weight and shape from his radar sense. He likes it; Foggy may not be classically handsome but he’s soft and warm and solid and _himself_ , and that’s better than any blandly handsome pop idol face.

And then there’s his _mouth_.

Matt traces the dip above Foggy’s chin, the hollow of his philtrum below his nose; he presses his thumbs in to meet the corners of Foggy’s mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do, here. And - and he _knows_ it’s stupid, but. This is where the music is.

“Matt,” Foggy says - no, _sighs_ , really, his breath gusting warm against Matt’s fingers. Matt can feel Foggy’s pulse through his skin and beneath the scent of Danish and coffee and Foggy’s conditioner he can smell _arousal_ , musky and sure.

Which is probably the part that makes him lose his mind entirely and kiss Foggy.

Foggy’s breath hitches and he lets out a small, perfect noise before _kissing Matt back_ , thank God and all the saints in heaven. His lips are soft and sweet and Matt was right before - this is music, right here.

But Matt still pulls back, just enough to give Foggy space to roll away if he needs to, to say that kissing back was a polite instinct and that he’s sorry but he really needs to leave forever now.

He can _hear_ Foggy lick his lips.

“I was _so_ hoping that was a line,” Foggy says finally, his voice bright with a smile, and Matt’s heart thumps even harder than before.

“It _does_ help me know what you look like,” Matt protests. He can’t keep the grin off his face.

“Please.” Foggy snorts. “What a player.”

“It does!”

“ _Sure._ ” Foggy props himself up on his elbows. “So what's the verdict?”

Matt figures kissing him again is answer enough.

_“There's not a man today who can take me away from my guy…”_

*

[Image description: The cover of the _Bugle’s_ Sunday pull-out section. It’s a picture of Elden Henson from about mid-thigh up, wearing a blue paisley shirt and looking solemnly at the camera. At the top of the page is the word “Reveille” and the Daily Bugle logo. Across the middle of the page is the headline “Boy Wonder: Foggy Nelson’s Second Life As A Hitmaker” and the credits “By Matt Murdock” and “Photos by Peter Parker.” At the bottom are more headlines: “The Music Issue: Who Is the Black Widow?; The Mary Janes vs. The Top 40; Pepper Potts: The Power Behind Stark Records.” In the lower right-hand corner is the date: May 15, 2016.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the playlist for this fic is [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/puzzleboat/playlist/1xoZmqofbC0q1tDoQFyvgv). For those of you who can't/don't use Spotify, we're working on an 8tracks version.
> 
> Keep the questions coming! We love hearing who you're wondering about in this universe. :)


	3. Nothing But the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: brief mention of past disordered eating, fatphobia, and children being bullied by adults.

“So I have some news.”

Matt shifts the phone between his ear and shoulder so that he can use both hands to dab at the blood he can feel oozing from the cut on his side. “Tell me.”

Foggy’s voice is bright and excited. “Marci worked whatever dark magic she works and scored me a headlining gig at the Beacon. It’s like this whole one night only featured performer thing with two openers, it’s actually a big deal!”

“That’s amazing. Not that you don’t deserve it, but seriously, Foggy, that’s incredible.” The cut stings as Matt dabs at it, but he’s beaming. Foggy sounds so _happy_.

“It’s two months from now, but I’m already comping you VIP seats right in front, buddy,” Foggy says. “I mean, if you want to come.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I want to come.”

“That’s right, I need you there to be my sexy arm candy,” Foggy says, and his voice is so fond that Matt loses track of what he’s doing for a minute and just sits there, smiling stupidly at nothing. It’s been three weeks - three impossibly joyful weeks - but Matt still can’t believe that he’s actually dating _Foggy_. It’s not even Foggy Nelson, Musician that’s throwing him off - it’s Foggy Nelson, Regular Human Being who’s so delightful as to be frankly implausible.

“Yeah, take me to the after party so that I can brag about you,” Matt says, and Foggy chuckles.

“I dunno, I feel a little silly being this stoked, but I am. We used to do stadium tours when I was in Boy Wonder - well, we _opened_ stadium tours - but. This is my stuff, you know? Something I built. It feels different.” His voice goes soft and inviting. “You sure you don’t want to come over tonight and celebrate?”

God, does Matt want to say yes. But his eye is bruised and swollen shut thanks to last night’s patrol, and no amount of claiming he walked into a door is going to explain this gash in his torso. Luckily it’s too shallow to need stitches, but he should still wait a few days before he sees Foggy, until his face is less alarming and his side’s scabbed over and easy to handwave away.

“I’d love to, but I really have to hit this deadline,” he says, and pushes down the little twist of guilt, like a cramp. “Give me a couple days to get everything in to Jameson and I promise I’ll be able to rejoin the living.”

“All right,” says Foggy easily, trustingly, and the guilt twists tighter. “Happy writing, babe. Call me when you’re out of the woods, okay?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, hoping the tightness of his throat doesn’t come through in his voice, “will do. Talk to you soon, Foggy.”

He hangs up and turns his attention back to his cut. He has to tell Foggy that he’s Daredevil, he knows that. He can’t keep this up forever. But everything between them is still so light and easy, so joyous, that he hasn’t been able to bring himself to confess.

Still. Foggy deserves the truth, and the longer Matt waits, the worse it’ll be when Foggy _does_ find out. Matt will tell him everything, and soon.

Just...not yet.

*

[Image description: A teenage Elden Henson wearing a bandana over long-ish hair and leaning against a bannister. The image is designed to look like a pinup from a tween magazine: there’s a Young Avengers logo in the upper lefthand corner, a starburst in the lower righthand corner that says “FOGGY” in neon yellow and “Boy Wonder” in neon pink, and another starburst halfway down the right side that says “WOW!” in rainbow letters with glittery rainbow stars behind it.]

*

"Thanks for cooking,” Foggy says when they're lying in bed, Matt’s head cushioned on Foggy’s chest. It’s a week later. Matt’s wounds have faded, and if he keeps the lights low and Foggy distracted, Foggy doesn’t ask about the scars. He’s glad; they’ve barely been dating a month but already going a few days without seeing Foggy feels like a famine.

"Thanks for...everything else," Matt says, and turns his head slightly so that Foggy can feel his smile. Foggy snorts and threads his fingers through Matt's hair.

"The first time I had pasta puttanesca was on tour in Italy when I was twelve," Foggy says a minute later. "Rick and Bucky found out what 'puttanesca' meant in Italian and they thought it was hilarious. They kept whispering 'whoresauce' during interviews to crack each other up." There's a soft smile in his voice, faint amusement.

Matt's quiet. Foggy's never been ashamed or embarrassed of his pop idol past, but he rarely shares details from it, either.

"The General caught them doing it during an interview in Germany and told them he'd take a solo away for each time he caught them saying it again," Foggy goes on. "He hated it when we made dirty jokes.” He drops his voice an octave in a gruff impression. “'You kids are supposed to be fucking wholesome, so watch your fucking mouths.' I _think_ the irony was intentional."

"The...you mean Ross?" Matt asks. "General" Thaddeus Ross was the music impresario who'd assembled a whole flock of boy bands in the late nineties, including Boy Wonder. Some of the bigger bands later sued him for embezzlement and breach of contract; Boy Wonder, from what Matt can tell, dissolved before financial matters could come to a head.

"Yeah," Foggy says. "God, I was terrified of him. He was this really, just, this _huge_ guy, and you never knew what'd set him off. Sometimes he'd be laughing and joking and then you'd say the wrong thing, and..." He shifts under Matt, something that feels like a shrug. "Besides, I wasn't one of his favorites. He liked Rick and Flash best and didn't care about Happy, but Bucky and I had smart mouths. He was always threatening to kick Bucky out of the band."

"Not you?" Matt asks.

"Who would've done the singing?" Foggy asks without a trace of ego. "He used to say I had a face for radio, but hell if I didn't have a voice for it, too."

Matt lifts his head, turns towards Foggy with a frown. "He said that to a twelve-year-old?"

"Oh yeah. Lots of cracks about my weight, too. I was on a pretty intense diet for most of Boy Wonder. Sort of ballooned after the band broke up, then panicked and kind of stopped eating the year I was fifteen. There was some yo-yo-ing for a while there, weight-wise. I was not always the Rubenesque beauty you're currently fondling."

Foggy's voice is cheerful, matter-of-fact, but Matt's horrified. It must show, because Foggy smooths his hair back and says, "Hey, no, don't make that face. I'm _fine_. My tweenage insecurities are a thing of the past, I promise."

“Okay,” Matt says, putting his head back down, even though nothing Foggy has just told him is okay.

“I can hear you being skeptical at me, you know,” Foggy says, giving him a little poke in the ribs. “Don’t you try the ‘poor little child star’ routine on me. I got out relatively unscathed. I’m a model of mental health! Not everyone’s that lucky, you know.” His joking tone falls apart on the last sentence, and he goes silent for a minute. Matt pets his hip and waits.

“We did this world tour with a couple other bands on the label, towards the end,” Foggy says eventually. “I was thirteen, and this older girl - she probably wasn't even eighteen, but she was older than me - offered to give me a blowjob if I introduced her to Rick. He was fifteen."

“What?” Matt asks, horrified anew.

He feels a shift beneath him as Foggy nods. "Yeah, I made up some excuse about having to go check on Flash and then hid in my dressing room for two hours. Later Bucky told me I was really stupid for passing that up, but...I mean, come on. I was a child. So was she, really."

“Did.” Matt’s not sure he's allowed to ask this. “Did you ever…”

“No, no,” Foggy says. “I lost my virginity to my first girlfriend after prom, just like any other normal all-American boy.”

Matt swallows. “And Ross never…” There have never been any allegations of sexual misconduct around him, but other managers, other Svengalis...

“Oh God, no!” Foggy says. “Please. He could barely stand to be in the same _room_ as us. He would never...I mean, yeah, calling us shrieky-voiced little shits, sure, all the time, but in a strictly hands-off kind of way.”

“Good,” Matt says. He hates that he even thought it, but there's something in Foggy's voice when he says “the General,” a sort of banked fear and awe and fury, that reminds Matt of Stick. Not that Stick ever touched Matt that way either, but...anyway, Matt's relieved.

“Like I said. I was lucky,” Foggy says. “I wasn't molested. I'm not in rehab. My parents didn't steal all my money.”

“But…?” Matt asks gently. He's still getting to know all of Foggy's little tells, still memorizing the loveliest song he's ever heard, but he knows that little hitch in Foggy's breathing that means there's something more he wants to say.

“...It was hard, after,” Foggy admits finally, very softly. “We were never that famous, but still, I’d always felt… _important_. I'd always felt special. It was hard to go back to being, you know, ordinary.”

Foggy's the least ordinary person Matt knows, but Matt doesn't want to interrupt him now. It feels like Foggy's working up to something, like he's _been_ working up to something since he started talking.

“I'd had a lot of freedom away from my parents, and I was kind of a little shit to them when I got back. We got in a lot of fights,” Foggy goes on. “Tutoring can only do so much, so I was behind on all my subjects, and my grades were bad. I felt stupid and fat and...and _useless_ all the time, because I'd _failed_ , _we'd_ failed. I was fourteen and I'd already peaked. And I didn't really have any friends, just people who made fun of me or people who thought I could get them a record deal. Or people who thought _I_ thought I was better than them, because I'd already _had_ a record deal. Maybe I shouldn't have gone to a performing arts school, but…” He shrugs, another shift under Matt. “Hindsight.

“Anyway, I had a therapist, of course, my parents weren't stupid, but I was just so...so _angry_ , and isolated, and ashamed…” He takes a long, steadying breath. “And then I read this story in the paper. About this kid my age, a kid who lived right here in my neighborhood, who lost his eyesight saving an old man’s life.”

Matt goes very still. Foggy's hand is warm on the back of his head.

“I was obsessed with your story for months,” Foggy says. “I read everything I could find. There wasn't much, so I read about your dad instead. I learned a lot about boxing.” He laughs a little, low and embarrassed. “Anyway. It...I don't know. It was like, here I was acting like such a little shit because I wasn't in a stupid _boy band_ anymore, and here _you_ were, doing something important and selfless, and you'd lost so much more than I had.” The gust of his exhale ruffles Matt’s hair. “I don't mean to be like, _oh, I learned wisdom and acceptance from the handicapped guy’s bravery_ , that's shitty and you're not a Hallmark card, but...I don't know. It put things in perspective, sort of. It made me...I wanted to be more like you.”

Matt doesn't say anything. His heartbeat roars in his ears.

“I didn't make the connection, at first,” Foggy says. “I mean, your name rang a bell but I couldn't place it...and then you walked into my dressing room.”

“And you saw that I was blind,” Matt says. His voice comes out rusty.

“Yeah. Well, once I finished losing my mind over how damn gorgeous you were, and what an idiot I'd made of myself.”

“You.” Matt swallows. “You weren't an idiot.”

“I was kind of an idiot,” Foggy says, faint amusement in his voice. “You walked out the door, and I thought, wow, _that’s_ Matt Murdock. And then I thought...wait, that’s _Matt Murdock_.” His fingers play with the short hairs at the back of Matt’s neck. His heart is beating fast. He’s nervous. “Anyway, I just. Wanted you to know, I guess? That you...that I know it wasn’t _for_ me, that it didn’t have anything to do with me, but...you helped me, way back when, when things were shitty, and I’m grateful.” Matt can hear the slide of him licking his lips. “Is that okay?”

Matt pushes himself up on one elbow so he can face Foggy, the warmth of him and the soft sound of his breathing. He wants to say that Foggy helped him too, that Foggy’s voice was something to hold on to when Matt felt like he was drowning in darkness, but it feels too big to put into words. And besides, he’s pretty sure Foggy knows at least a little - from the way Matt awkwardly thrust his old Boy Wonder album at Foggy to sign, from the way Matt gushed about Foggy’s music in his early reviews, from the way he _knows_ Matt, can see through all his half-spoken requests and secret anxieties in a heartbeat.

Instead he kisses Foggy, soft and sweet, and then lays his head back down on Foggy’s chest. “Yeah,” he says to Foggy’s heart. “It’s okay.”

*

[Image description: The bottom half of a page torn out of a tween magazine. At the top, near the ripped part, is the lower half of a photo of five teenage boys in 90s clothes. In the bottom righthand corner of the page is a picture of a young Sebastian Stan in a striped shirt and blazer with a little thought bubble next to him that says: “Bucky loves ziplining! What’s your favorite winter activity? Send YAM a postcard with your answer for a chance to win backstage passes to a Boy Wonder concert near you!”

Below the photo of the boy band is the following interview:

Hey, YAMmers! Have you been WONDERING what the guys from Boy Wonder are like? Wonder no more, because YAM sat down with these five dreamy dudes and asked them the questions we know you've been dying to hear the answers to!

YAM: Most of you guys have nicknames. Where did those come from?  
Rick: Well, Happy's such a cheerful guy, and we call our little buddy here Flash because the camera loves him.  
Bucky: My middle name's Buchanan, so Bucky's short for that.  
Foggy: And I control the weather.

YAM: Foggy, you're such a kidder! What's your idea of the perfect date?  
Flash: I'd take her to an arcade and win her a stuffed animal, so she'd always remember our special day together.  
Happy: How about a moonlit drive around Malibu?  
Bucky: I love extreme sports, so we'd go ziplining or something. Maybe in the mountains somewhere, I love the cold!

What's your favorite thing about being in Boy Wonder?  
Bucky: Getting to travel all over the world, and meet all our fans!  
Rick: Definitely the fans, and performing with my best bros.  
Foggy: Getting to spend every day with my best friends. Even if Boy Wonder ended tomorrow, we'd still be brothers.

Lightning Round!  
Favorite Color:  
Rick: Green  
Bucky: Black  
Flash: Blue  
Happy: Yellow  
Foggy: Red

Favorite Subject:  
Rick: Science  
Bucky: History  
Flash: Gym  
Happy: Driver's Ed  
Foggy: Civics

Favorite Boy Wonder Song:  
Rick: "You're My World"  
Bucky: "Miss America"  
Flash: "You're My World"  
Happy: "Girl You Are My Girl"  
Foggy: "Someday"]

*

Later, when it’s over, Matt’s not sure whether to blame the arms dealer who shot him or a lifetime of Pavlovian eager responses to Foggy’s voice. He supposes it doesn’t matter. Either way, it ends with Foggy walking out the door.

He’d been tracking the arms dealer for weeks, tracing the flow of assault weapons and armor-piercing bullets into the Kitchen by shaking answers out of mooks higher and higher up the food chain until he gets a solid lead. He postpones another dinner date with Foggy when he finds out about it - a shipment coming in Friday night that will flood Hell’s Kitchen with weapons that can take down Daredevil, and more importantly the police, even through kevlar.

Foggy can wait until brunch. This can’t.

It’s a hard fight, and Matt takes a bullet through the meat of his right shoulder. He puts down the seller and his men, though, and that’s what’s important. But it’s late by the time he’s listened to the police collect the gang and their weapons, woken up Claire so that she can patch him up, and made his careful way home. He can already feel the heat of the morning sun creeping through the windows as he leaves his suit in a crumpled heap on the living room floor and collapses into bed.

So when Foggy knocks on his door for the third time less than four hours later and calls, “Matt! Are you decent? Come on, babe, eggs benedict and mimosas wait for no man!” Matt’s too groggy to remember to grab a shirt before he staggers to the door and opens it.

He realizes his mistake instantly when Foggy’s heartbeat goes into overdrive. “Matt! Holy crap, Matt, what happened to your shoulder?”

“I’m fine,” Matt says quickly, idiotically.

“What do you mean, you’re fine? You’ve got a huge bandage on your shoulder and you’re covered in bruises - what _happened?_ ”

Foggy’s voice is getting louder with every word, sharp with anxiety. Matt winces and pulls him into the apartment with his good arm, shutting the door behind him. The last thing he needs is for his neighbors to see this, too - neighbors who might already have noticed him coming and going at odd hours.

“It was just a little accident. I’m okay, really,” he says. “See, I’m already all patched up! It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Foggy says, following him into the living room. “It looks like…”

He trails off, and Matt’s stomach sinks. What is Foggy looking at, what made him stop talking, why is his heart beating even faster…

“Matt,” Foggy says, and oh no, that’s not a happy voice. “Is that Daredevil’s suit?”

It’s still on the floor. _Shit._

“I can explain,” Matt says immediately.

“I hope so,” Foggy says. “Because from where I’m standing it looks like either you’ve been lying about being blind to cover up your illegal vigilantism, or you’re into some really violent roleplay and have been cheating on me to get it. Although I guess we never talked about exclusivity so maybe ‘cheating’ is the wrong word but you’ve got a look on your face like a dog that got into the garbage so whatever’s going on I’m _pretty_ sure you know I won’t be happy about it, and I’m babbling now so please just put me out of my misery and tell me what it is?”

Matt takes a deep breath. There’s no talking himself out of this now. “I am Daredevil. But I’m not lying about being blind.”

God, he wishes he _was_ lying, because he’d give anything to see Foggy’s face right now.

Foggy’s silent for a long moment. Then he walks over to the couch, making a wide berth around the suit - Matt can’t blame him, to his own nose it reeks of blood and guilt and he’s tempted to throw it in the trash right now - and sits.

“Explain,” Foggy says.

Matt sits gingerly on the opposite end of the couch, trying not to crowd Foggy, and does his best. He tells him the truth about the accident, and his senses, and learning to control them. He tells him about Stick - a little - and his training, and keeping up with the training even after Stick left. He tells him about hearing screams in the night, screams and sirens and little girls crying, and how the need to _do_ something about it bubbled up in him, hotter and hotter like a pot boiling over until he had to take action or risk immolation.

“It's illegal, Matt,” Foggy points out when Matt's done, spent and tired and raw-throated. “What you do. You're breaking the law.”

“Sometimes the law isn't enough,” Matt says. “I don't like breaking it, I really don't, but it's worth it to me if I can help people. And I can, I do.”

“You hurt people.”

“I save more. I saved _you_.”

Foggy makes a low noise, like he's acknowledging it but doesn't really want to. “You'll still go to jail if you're caught.”

“I know. It's still worth it.”

Foggy's silent again. From the direction he's facing, Matt's pretty sure he’s staring at the suit. He wishes he wasn't.

“You lied to me,” Foggy says. “Last night. When you said you weren't feeling well - you were doing this, weren't you?” Matt nods miserably. “How often do you lie to me, Matt?”

“I. I try not to. I hate lying to you.” He feels pathetic, twisted and hunched small on the couch, ashamed of his bloody hands.

“But you do it anyway,” Foggy says. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you going to just keep lying until...I don't know. Until you got arrested? Until I read about it in the _Bugle?_ Until some criminal got lucky and I waited and waited for you to come home and never knew what had happened to...to the man I…” He cuts himself off before he finishes the sentence that Matt, selfish as he is, desperately wants to hear the end of.

“I was going to tell you,” Matt says. “I _was_. I just...I didn’t know how.”

“Okay, but here’s the thing, Matt,” Foggy says. “How do I know that isn’t just another lie?”

Matt flinches. “It’s not,” he says, but what good is his word to Foggy now?

“Christ,” Foggy says, suddenly bitter. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, you know that?”

“This is something I have to do, Foggy,” Matt says. “This is what I _can_ do. I’m not like you, you...you have this music in you, this art, this light, and that, _that’s_ what you give to the world. This is what I can give.”

“What are you talking - there’s no comparison!” Foggy says, standing up. Matt has a moment of sheer panic, but Foggy’s not leaving - just pacing, angry. “I write pop songs. You put people in the hospital!”

“I have to try to _help_ people,” Matt says. “I have to. It’s who I am.”

“No. You’re making a choice,” Foggy says. “You don’t get to just chalk it up to compulsion. This is a _choice_.”

Matt closes his eyes. It doesn’t matter either way - he can hear the angry beat of Foggy’s heart, his pacing footsteps, the rush of his breath - but he’s not wearing his glasses, and he suddenly can’t bear the thought of Foggy seeing him like this, in this moment where he’s probably throwing it all away. “Then it’s the one I’ve made.”

Foggy stops pacing and just...stands there for a minute. Matt can’t read him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

“All right,” Foggy says finally. “That’s...I’m gonna go. I have to go.”

“Foggy…” Matt starts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Yeah,” Foggy says, and walks out the door.

At least, Matt thinks, he doesn’t start crying until Foggy’s already gone.


	4. You're My World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click the lyrics to embiggen!

It used to be a game, sort of, a grownup version of his childhood habit of listening for sirens. He'd stretch out his senses, reach out with his hearing for radios, computers, headphones blaring too loud on the train, and pick out the Foggy Nelson songs. He almost never heard one Foggy’d recorded himself - Foggy's own albums were too obscure - but over the years, as the hits he’d written for others piled up, the game had gotten easier and easier.

He can't stop playing it now, even though it's nothing like fun. He sits at his desk, assignment forgotten, and follows the threads of melody back to their sources. “Drink the Eel” from someone's headphones over in the sales department. “Nothing But the Truth” from a car driving past the building. “When I Know I Know” from the bodega on the next corner.

The love songs are the worst.

He's distracted enough that it startles him when Peter sits down on the edge of Matt's desk. “All right, Murdock, what's going on?”

Matt turns his head half towards Peter, a small concession. “What do you mean?”

“You look like someone finally told you what happened to the Beatles. What’s wrong?” Peter kicks him in the knee, probably a little harder than he thinks he did. “Don’t tell me your own personal heartthrob only sang you off to sleep last night with _two_ ballads instead of three.”

Matt takes a steadying breath. It only feels a little like choking. “We broke up, actually.”

“Oh.” Peter’s jovial tone vanishes. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, man. I’m being an asshole, sorry.”

“It’s okay.” In the grand scale of things, Peter’s digs barely hurt.

“You want to talk about it?”

Matt shakes his head, but finds himself talking anyway. “He found out about my...hobby. He wasn’t thrilled.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Peter says again, which Matt can understand. Even he has more people in his life who know his secret than Peter does. Well, _had_. Matt supposes he can’t really count Stick or Elektra as being part of his life anymore.

Or Foggy.

“Well, hey,” Peter says after a long pause, his voice bright with forced cheer, “more fish in the sea, right? And you can always say you dated your celebrity crush. How often does _that_ happen?”

“Sure,” Matt says, even if it’s not really true. Oh sure, if he’s honest with himself he’s been infatuated with Foggy’s voice since he was a kid, and with his writing for nearly as long. He’s spent years and years spinning vague fantasies about what Foggy would be like, if they ever met, and he can’t pretend they all revolved around sober, intellectual discussions of Foggy’s craft.

He had no way of knowing, then, about Foggy’s bright, irreverent sense of humor, or his thoughtfulness, or his kneejerk habit of filling up every silence with chatter. He didn’t know that Foggy puts way too much sugar in his coffee and fusses over his hair every morning like a debutante. He didn’t know the sound of Foggy’s voice when he’s overtired and cranky, or the way the nape of his neck smells when Matt wakes up with his face smushed into it.

He didn’t date his celebrity crush. He dated _Foggy_ , who was so much more than any hollow fantasy could have ever been. And he ruined it.

Peter pats him on the shoulder, and for once it’s not a little too hard. “It’ll get better, dude. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Thanks. Listen, I should finish this review before Jameson gets on my case.”

“Right, of course,” Peter says. “Hang in there.”

He walks away. Matt puts his earbud in and suppresses a sigh as he turns back to the computer. He knows it’ll get better - of course he knows. He’s more than used to people leaving.

*

[ ](https://i.imgur.com/qMH2K4W.jpg)

[Image description: A screenshot of the Genius.com page for “Nothing But The Truth.” The credited artist is Darla Deering, the album is _Ms. Thing_ , and the producers are Mary Jane Watson and Foggy Nelson. In the upper righthand corner is the album cover, featuring a teenage girl with pink hair looking over her bare shoulder, the text “Darla Deering: Ms. Thing,” and the Stark Records logo. Below are the lyrics to the song and the following verified annotation, credited to Foggy:

“I wrote this song when I was 16 and thinking about maybe eventually going to law school. In fact, if this demo hadn’t sold, I probably would have gone. As it is, Tony Stark was nice enough to pull that CD (it was still CDs then) out of a stack and give me a second chance at music.

“Reading up about law school had gotten me thinking about the common threads between a witness taking an oath on the stand and two people committing to a relationship - theoretically there’s this immutable bond of trust, but really it’s all based on the honor system and no one’s stopping anyone from saying whatever they want. There are all these rules in place to try to keep people honest in a courtroom, but at the end of the day no one can really prove if someone’s actually telling the truth. And just because someone says they love you doesn’t mean they really do. Or so I mused when I was 16 and thought I was very deep.

“Of course, these are all assumptions about the law based on an indeterminate number of _Law & Order: SVU_ marathons. This is a heartbreak jam, not a legal brief. Actual lawyers are welcome and encouraged to annotate and let me know how wrong I got it.”

There’s one comment, from Matt Murdock: “This song is a work of genius. Fitting for this site.”

**Nothing But the Truth**  
Darla Deering  
Produced by Mary Jane Watson and Franklin Nelson  
Album: Ms. Thing

[Spoken]  
All rise  
All rise  
All rise  
Order in the court

[Sung]

Now I am not the pushy sort, your honor  
But right now if it please the court, your honor  
I’d like to call a witness to the stand  
Before I let him take my hand  
Let’s all hear his retort, your honor

Precedents that have been set, your honor  
Have left me nothing but regret, your honor  
‘Cause baby I’ve been burned by love before  
So this time I want to be sure  
So you can place your bet I’m gonna

Say tell me the truth, are you gonna be my guy?  
Do you really love me, if you do then testify  
If you don’t then cop a plea  
‘Cause the lying’s gonna stop with me  
Baby  
I want the truth  
The whole truth  
And nothing but the truth

Now I’ve been through a hit and run the last time  
When I thought that he was the one the last time  
I put my trust in what I thought was true  
And now I’m never gonna do  
The stupid things I’d done the last time

So if this time I’m gonna say I love you  
I need to know you’re here to stay - I love you  
But baby I’ve been burned by love before  
So what’s the verdict, what’s the score  
Promise me it’s okay to love you

Tell me the truth, are you gonna be my guy?  
Do you really love me, if you do then testify  
If you don’t then cop a plea  
‘Cause the lying’s gonna stop with me  
Baby  
I want the truth  
The whole truth  
And nothing but the truth

[Are you gonna be my guy?]  
[If you will then testify]  
[Cop a plea]  
[The lying stops with me]  
[I want the truth]

Tell me the truth, are you gonna be my guy? [Are you gonna be my guy?]  
Do you really love me, if you do then testify [If you will then testify]  
If you don’t then cop a plea [Cop a plea]  
‘Cause the lying’s gonna stop with me [The lying stops with me]  
Baby [I want the truth]  
I want the truth  
The whole truth  
And nothing but the truth

[Spoken]  
Court adjourned

*

Matt patrols a lot, now. He's got nothing else to fill his nights.

He's swinging over 46th Street when he hears a scream. He changes directions as sharply as he can and heads for the sound, zeroing in on it to get a picture before he arrives: a man growling “Hand it over, bitch.” A woman crying and pleading.

And a familiar voice saying, “Hey! Leave her alone!”

Matt's heart clenches. He's close enough now to hear the click of a gun’s hammer and smell the acrid tang of fear. _Foggy._

He drops into the alley between the mugger and his intended victim, between the mugger and Foggy. Yes, that's a gun, that's _Foggy’s_ frightened heartbeat along with the woman’s, and Matt’s so furious that the mugger’s on the ground with his clip in the trash before he quite realizes he's doing it.

Foggy lets out a shaky breath. “Daredevil.”

Matt doesn't turn around. Even in a mask, he's afraid of what his face will give away. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. It's a lie.

“Th-thank you, Daredevil,” the woman says. She's still crying a little, but her voice is strong. “Thank you both.”

“You should call the police,” Matt says. “Report this.”

He senses Foggy's nod. “I can stay with you until they come, ma’am, if that's okay.”

“Please,” she says.

Matt lifts his billy club, ready to grapple away. He hears Foggy's breath catch. “Uh. Daredevil...” Foggy sighs. “Sorry. Nothing. Never mind.”

Matt gives a short nod and releases the grapple. He lets it carry him up to the roof, and then - he waits. Until the police come, until they take statements from Foggy and the woman, until the mugger is woken and loaded, handcuffed, into an ambulance, and the woman is escorted home in a squad car. Foggy waves off the offer of an escort for himself and sets off in the direction of his apartment and Matt keeps pace along the rooftops, keeping a wary ear on him. He’ll leave Foggy alone, he _will_. He just wants to make sure Foggy gets home okay first.

He tells himself he’ll leave as soon as Foggy’s safely ensconced in his apartment, but when Foggy reaches his building, he doesn’t go inside. Instead, he sits down heavily on the steps leading up to his front door and puts his head in his hands. “Jesus.”

Matt’s making his way down the nearest fire escape before he can stop himself. “Are you okay?”

Foggy jerks upright, startled, then relaxes marginally when he sees Matt. “Shit. Yeah. Hi.”

He’s not okay. His body’s broadcasting stress and alarm at Matt: racing heart, rapid breathing, sweat and adrenalin sour and coppery on the back of Matt’s tongue. Matt doesn’t blame him - most people aren’t used to having a gun waved in their faces.

He wants to reach out for Foggy, to pull him close and soothe him until the tremble fades from his frame; to promise him that he’ll never let anything, _anything_ hurt Foggy, not while he’s alive. But he can’t. He doesn’t have that right.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Good. Sorry, I...I don’t mean to bother you, I just wanted to…” He’s babbling. He takes a step back. “I’ll leave.”

“Does that happen often?” Foggy blurts out, standing up as Matt turns away. “You being held at gunpoint? Is that, like, an everyday occurrence, or just weekly, or what?”

Matt turns back, confused. “I wasn’t held at gunpoint. _You_ were,” he says.

“He was just threatening me! He was gonna shoot _you!_ ” Foggy says. “And you just, you just jumped in there and _kicked_ him and what if he had pulled the trigger?”

“He wouldn’t have had time, I know what I’m doing - ”

“ _You could have died!_ ” Foggy snaps. “Right there in front of me, I could have watched you _die_ , Matt, and then what would I...how would I…” He takes in a great, shuddery breath and it hits Matt like a right hook he wasn’t expecting: Foggy’s not shaken up because he was in danger. He’s shaken up because _Matt_ was.

“I really was ready for him,” he says, trying to make his voice gentle. He doesn’t know what to do with the idea that someone’s this scared _for_ him. “I have a lot of training and a lot of practice. I’m not saying it’s impossible for someone to get a lucky shot off, but…” He shrugs. “I helped you tonight, you and that woman. I helped someone last night, and I’ll help someone tomorrow. I know how to fight, and I’m careful, but if someone gets the drop on me...well, it’s worth it, to me. The trade-off.”

“What if it’s not worth it to _me?_ ” Foggy says, very quietly. “Your life for mine? I don’t like that trade, Matt.”

Matt shrugs, helpless. He doesn’t have an answer.

“Right,” Foggy says. “I should go inside. It’s late, and we don’t want anyone seeing…” He waves a vague hand at Matt.

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Good night, Foggy.”

“Good night, Matt,” Foggy says, and walks up the stairs and into his building. Matt doesn’t leave until he hears the click of the lock as it shuts.

*

[Image description: A concert poster with a picture of Elden Henson wearing white headphones and a blue paisley shirt and smiling in front of a black and white geometric background. Above the picture it says “Stark Records Presents” and below it it says “An Evening with FOGGY NELSON with Howard the Duck + Kamala Khan / June 24 + The Beacon Theatre + New York CIty / All Ages + One Night Only,” followed by the Stark Records logo.]

*

Matt nearly falls out of his chair when his phone tells him he has a text message from Foggy. He fumbles to switch his earbuds from his computer to his phone and has it read him the text.

_“Hey, Matt. Not sure if you’re still planning on coming to the show at the Beacon on Friday but I’d really like it if you did.”_

Matt listens to it three times to make sure he’s heard it right. Foggy wants him at the show. Why does Foggy want him at the show? They’ve broken up, haven’t they? Neither one of them has said it, but...Foggy can’t possibly still want him.

But he asked Matt to come to the show.

Matt spends a few minutes agonizing over what to say before just sending back: _“Okay, I’ll be there.”_ It sounds incredibly stupid to him two seconds after he hits send - too flippant, too brief, too eager - but it’s too late now.

Foggy doesn’t send anything back.

Matt obsesses over the conversation - if it can even be called that - for the rest of the week. Maybe Foggy wants him to hear what he’s lost. Maybe Foggy’s reworked his set to be entirely kiss-off songs. Maybe Foggy plans to announce to the whole theater that Matt is Daredevil.

He knows, intellectually, that all of those scenarios are wildly out of character and far too cruel for Foggy, but any theory at opposite end of the spectrum - that Foggy could be planning on giving him another chance - seems even less likely.

But Foggy wants him there, so Matt will be there.

Foggy comped him two tickets, so he invites Claire. He thinks about bringing Peter instead, but Peter tends to pick up other people’s nerves like an anxious pet, and the last thing he needs if he actually gets a chance to _talk_ to Foggy is to get stuck in a neurotic feedback loop with Peter. Then he worries that Foggy will see him in the audience with a strange woman and think he’s brought a _date_. Then he thinks maybe he _should_ make Foggy think he’s brought a date. Then he has four beers very quickly.

By Friday night he’s a wreck.

“How do I look?” he asks Claire when he meets her outside the theater.

“Like you’re about to throw up,” she says, then hastily adds, “But cute!”

“Uh. Thanks?” he says.

He jumps about a foot when she pats him on the arm. “Whoa, easy there, Trigger. Try to breathe, would you? He wouldn’t have invited you if he didn’t want to see you.”

“I guess,” Matt says doubtfully, and Claire sighs.

“Wow, you’re really gone on this guy, huh?” she asks. Matt nods miserably. “Okay, come on, let’s go inside. If he makes you cry I promise to punch him, all right?”

“Violence never solves anything,” he manages, which cracks her up, and lets her lead him into the theater. He only clings to her elbow a little bit tighter than he probably should.

Matt barely hears the opening act. He can’t pick out the sound or smell of Foggy from backstage - there’s too many people, it’s too chaotic - but he knows Foggy’s here, in this building. He picks at the strap of his cane, folded in his lap, and tries to breathe.

Finally it’s time for the headliner. Foggy’s band comes out, settling into place behind their instruments, and then...Foggy. Foggy, right there in front of him, his heartbeat fast but steady, the familiar shape of him aglow in Matt’s radar sense.

He launches right into a song - a cover of “Nothing But the Truth,” still his biggest hit - followed by “Every Wednesday” from his latest album. He sounds like he always does - buoyant, bright, that perfect voice ringing like a bell. Matt’s not sure what he was expecting instead. Maybe some sign that he’s left his mark on Foggy, like Foggy has on him.

Claire leans in towards him halfway through the second song, a hand on his arm. “Okay, this may not be helpful, but I get the fanboy thing now, I think. He’s _good_.”

“Yeah,” Matt manages.

“Hello, New York! How’s everyone doing tonight?” Foggy asks after the second song, and the crowd cheers. He’s sweating; Matt can smell it. He’s so close. “Wow. Just. There are a _lot_ of you out there. And you are all exceptionally beautiful and have incredibly discerning taste, by the way. Well done there.”

Matt thinks Foggy’s gaze might be sweeping the crowd, but it’s hard to tell without sight. He’s in the second row, dead center, too close to miss, but there’s no catch in Foggy’s breathing or heartbeat that might betray his recognition. And the idea of asking Claire to let him know when Foggy’s looking at him is frankly humiliating.

“Anyway, you didn’t come to hear me chatter, so let’s let the band earn their keep, huh?” Foggy says, and they jump into the next song. It’s a longer set than Matt’s used to from Foggy’s little club shows, but pretty much par for the course otherwise, alternating the songs from Foggy’s own albums with the better-known songs he’s written for other performers. Far more people in the audience sing along with the covers, but the response to Foggy’s music is positive, too, and Matt’s not sure if it’s just Foggy’s skill and charm, or that his popularity as an artist in his own right is growing. Either way, under the nerves and the overwhelming impact of being in Foggy’s presence again, Matt is proud.

Despite Foggy’s comments about not talking too much, he keeps up a steady stream of commentary throughout the show, interspersing the music with banter with the band and funny anecdotes. It’s not the same, really, as having a true conversation with him, but there’s no pretense involved, no carefully rehearsed bits. It’s just Foggy, _Matt’s_ Foggy, even if he doesn’t have the right to call him that anymore. This is the witty, charming motormouth Matt fell in love with, standing just out of reach. He can’t decide if he wants this to go on forever or be over immediately.

Foggy opens the encore with “You’re My World,” which surprises Matt a bit - he usually closes with that. He also does a different arrangement than Matt’s used to, bluesy and yearning instead of his usual pared-down acoustics. When he’s done, he puts down his guitar, and the band all steps back from their instruments. Matt frowns. Something a cappella, then? Foggy’s never done that before - not live, at least.

Foggy bends down and adjusts something on the floor in front of him. “I’m my own roadie,” he says, and the audience laughs. “Okay, yes. Loop pedal is a go. Let’s see if this works. I’ve never done this live,” he explains as he straightens up. “It’s an experiment. If it totally bombs, let’s all agree that the concert ended with ‘You’re My World,’ okay?”

Matt sits forward. He wants to hear where this is going.

“Bear with me, gonna take a couple minutes to set this up. Hang on.” Foggy takes a breath and then starts singing a bassline, doo-wop-style _bum bum bum_ vocalizations at the bottom of his register that Matt can feel in the soles of his feet. He cocks his head. This isn’t one of Foggy’s songs. Why does it sound familiar?

Foggy completes the bass loop and starts to whistle the next one, layering it over the repeating _bum bum bums_ , and Matt freezes. He _knows_ this song.

Foggy lays down the instrumental line - piano, it’s an piano on the real track, Matt knows because he’s listened to this song countless times since he first listened to it with Foggy - and moves on to the backing vocals, layering in the echoes. It’s unmistakable, now, and usually this is the moment when an audience starts to applaud - when they can identify exactly what song they’re about to hear. But there’s something in air that keeps them silent, something serious and earnest, suspended in the ether, as Foggy builds the song for them. For Matt.

Foggy starts to clap, then, arm movements big to encourage the audience to join in. Everyone does, the sound surrounding Matt and echoing back at him, but not Matt. Not Matt. He can’t move.

Then Foggy starts to sing.

_“Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy…”_

It’s usually a playful song, and there’s joy in Foggy’s voice because there always is, but it’s not a joke. No, it’s earnest, it’s _reverent_ , so simply heartfelt that even the rest of the audience is silent except for the heartbeat rhythm of the handclaps.

_“I’m telling you from the start I can’t be torn apart from my guy…”_

Matt sits, transfixed. He can’t hear Claire’s breathing next to him; he can’t hear the noise of the city outside. All he can hear is Foggy’s voice, the voice that’s been reaching out to him through the darkness since he was a child, doubled and looped and repeating and repeating. Foggy’s built the song for him, built it with just his breath and his vocal cords with such care that Matt feels like he’s inside it - like the lines of the musical staff are walls around him and he can reach out and touch the notes. It’s Matt’s whole existence, hung and quivering in the air around him, and suddenly he’s back in his childhood kitchen with his headphones on, and then he’s in his apartment and Foggy’s kissing him, and then he’s running across the rooftops with the wind in his face, and Foggy’s perfect voice echoes around him, protecting him from everything that’s not here, now, this moment.

He doesn’t need to ask Claire. He knows Foggy’s looking straight at him.

There’s silence when the song fades, a half-beat after Foggy turns off the loop pedal where even someone with normal ears could hear a pin drop, and then the crowd erupts into applause. Foggy’s waving, saying some kind of closing words, but Matt’s not listening. He’s already on his feet, pushing down the row, stepping on people’s feet in his haste, leaving Claire behind.

He tracks Foggy’s heartbeat as he leaves the stage and heads for the door closest to where Foggy’s going. No one stops him as he slips out of the auditorium or down a hall, but there’s a security guard standing behind the third door he tries. “Bathrooms are that way, sir,” the guard says, sounding bored.

“No, I’m, I’m looking for the green room, I should be on the list? Matt Murdock,” Matt babbles. “I’m on the list.”

The guard flips through a couple sheets of paper and nods. “Okay. Take a left down here and it’s the third door on your right. You need help?”

“No, no, I’m,” Matt says and doesn’t bother to finish the sentence because he’s already hurrying down the hall, cane forgotten in his hand, and he can smell Foggy, he’s right _there_.

Foggy’s alone in the green room, his heart beating triple time. Matt knocks with a shaking hand, and Foggy calls, “Come in.”

Matt opens the door, and hears Foggy’s breath catch. “Hey,” Foggy says. “How’d you like the show?”

“I love you,” Matt blurts out. It’s not what he meant to say but it might be the only thing _worth_ saying.

Foggy’s heart beats even faster. “Oh, thank God,” he says, and then he’s kissing Matt, and Matt can’t tell which one of them is shaking.

He clutches at Foggy’s shirt, rests his forehead against Foggy’s and breathes in his sweaty, adrenaline-rich post-show scent. “I thought you’d never want to speak to me again,” he admits, very quietly, as if saying it out loud will make it come true.

“I considered it,” Foggy says. He leans away from Matt, but just enough to toe the door shut, and then he’s right back in Matt’s arms. “Especially after you...after the last time we spoke. I was _livid_ , because you were going to get yourself killed, and it was like you didn’t even _care_ that you’d be leaving me alone.”

“I do care,” Matt says, startled, choked. “I do. I just...”

“I know,” Foggy says. He strokes Matt’s cheekbone with his thumb. “I get it. I mean, I don’t, not really, but...I get that you’re not going to stop. Not until you can’t do it anymore, or until...well.” He takes a shaky breath. “I just thought, doing what you do, you could die tonight. Or, or, tomorrow night, or...I don’t know, any day you could be gone, and I would have wasted it. If I’m only going to have you for a limited time, then I want to spend every second of that time _with you_. We can figure out the rest of it, but at the end of the day, you’re what I want. The rest is just details.”

“Foggy…” Matt says, chest tight.

Foggy starts to kiss Matt, then suddenly pulls back and adds, “Oh, and also I love you too.”

It’s harder to kiss Foggy when Matt’s laughing, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try.

*

_“You got me on the level / You’re a daredevil / I wanna dishevel your hair…”_ Foggy croons, coming up behind Matt as he’s washing the dishes and kissing the back of his neck.

Matt laughs. “Maybe go back to the drawing board on that one.”

He can feel Foggy’s pout against his neck. “I thought you said I was a musical genius.”

“I guess I’m not the best source of inspiration,” Matt suggests, turning off the water and leaning back into Foggy’s embrace.

“Outrage. How dare you. You are my muse. You are my Galatea.”

“She wasn’t a muse, she was a statue.”

“You are my…uh...”

“Euterpe,” Matt says serenely. “The ancient Greek muse of music.”

“Ew, I’m dating a nerd,” Foggy says. “That’s so not rock and roll.”

“Write a song about nerds in love,” Matt suggests. “Or...being uncool for love, or something.”

“It’s hip to be square,” Foggy agrees, and leans into nuzzle the side of Matt’s neck before freezing. “Uh. Hm.”

Matt laughs again and reaches back to pat his hip. “Go,” he says, and Foggy gives him a big smacking kiss on the cheek before releasing him and hurrying to the piano. A minute later Matt hears him humming, a few hesitant notes plucked out on the keys, and the scratch of a pencil on paper.

Matt’s still smiling as he turns the water back on. It’s been like this in the months since the concert, with Foggy being struck by sudden inspiration and wandering off to spend ten minutes to three hours at the piano, playing the same little riffs over and over again until they coalesce into something approaching a song, or until he gives up in frustration and swears off music forever. Matt’s not about to complain. He loves listening to Foggy work.

And whether Foggy’s triumphant or frustrated, he tends to flop on the couch when he’s done, tug at Matt’s belt loops until Matt’s sprawled in his lap and laughing. It’s not unlike when Matt climbs in through the window at night, the rhythm of New York City still beating in his veins, and wriggles into the circle of Foggy’s arms until Foggy stirs and offers comfort or praise or celebration, whatever Matt needs.

It’s not the same, what they do, not by a long shot. But they’re close enough to understand each other where it counts.

Matt finishes the dishes and walks over to the piano bench, where Foggy’s curled over his legal pad scribbling something and mouthing along nearly soundlessly. “What rhymes with orange?” Matt asks, and Foggy snorts.

“Bite me, Murdock.”

“What rhymes with Murdock?”

“Burdock, a medicinal herb used in Europe and Asia that inspired the invention of velcro,” Foggy responds tartly. “Don’t try to stump me, Matt, I’ve done my homework.”

Matt curves his hands over Foggy’s shoulders and Foggy tips his head back against Matt’s belly. “What rhymes with Matt?”

“Matt’s where it’s at and that is that/ He hears my heart’s every pitter-pat/ Upon it he’s staged a _coup d’etat_.” He mangles the pronunciation of “d’etat” to fit the rhyme and Matt snorts.

“Your French is terrible.”

“You like me anyway.”

“No argument there.” Matt bends to kiss Foggy’s forehead, and Foggy tips his head further back for a better angle. “Hey, Foggy?” Matt asks. “What rhymes with this?”

He kisses Foggy then, and gets another kiss for an answer, which is about what he was expecting. If there’s a way to make a song of it, though, he knows Foggy will find a way.

It’s sure to be a hit.

*

[Image description: The front and back covers of a CD. On the front cover is a New York City street scene at night with the Empire State Building in the background, faded very dark. The album title, _Crimson_ , is written in letters that look like neon lights, with “Foggy Nelson” below it. On the back is a picture of Elden Henson as Foggy, wearing a suit and looking over his shoulder on a city street. At the bottom are the following credits: “All Songs Written & Produced by Foggy Nelson / Mixed by Gwen Stacy / Recorded in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, NY / Exclusive Representation by Marci Stahl / [Copyright] 2017 Stark Records.” To the left is the following tracklisting:

Who Are you Looking For  
Rosary  
Sunday Paper  
No Secrets  
Fire Escape  
Silk  
Five O’Clock Shadow  
Heartbeat  
The Boxer  
You’re Not Alone  
Wounded Handsome Duck  
Thank You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking us all this way, guys. Annotations to come!


End file.
